On the days where everything goes right, when dinner takes little work and the house sits clean and the Mister gets home early, I retreat into the bedroom to read. Or, on that night, edit pictures in my pajamas.
Shortly after a crop and just before a color adjustment, they both tumbled in. A door that could open gently, so I remember, crashed open from the force of exuberant youth. The shine of dad at home had worn dull far too soon.
What are you doing?
What’s for dinner?
What’s for dessert?
Can we have ice cream?
Can we go on a play date?
Six questions too many. I asked for silence, just one little minute. Please.
Nicholas picked up the bra I left discarded on the bed, the green and yellow one with a touch of black, and waved it like a flag.
“Mama, which one of these things do you have behind your shirt?”
My disappointment at the interruption evaporated in the face of four year-old sentence structure. I’m used to it, the way his sentences roll out like red carpets I walk down to reach a logical conclusion. Behind all those words that aren’t quite right is a point. In this case, a question. He wanted to know which bra I was wearing.
I gave him my full attention. “That’s called a bra, Nicholas, and I’m not wearing one.”
He nodded his head in understanding. Then he reached over, palmed my right breast with his left hand and gave it a mighty shake before adding solemnly, “I can see that, Mama.”